


Lesson

by Hoodoo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Aftercare, Anger, Discipline, Explicit Sexual Content, Knifeplay, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-13 22:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12993735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoodoo/pseuds/Hoodoo
Summary: A lesson needs taught, and it needs to be taught in a way that won't be forgotten.





	Lesson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MUDAxolotl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUDAxolotl/gifts).



_“Is that my shirt?!”_

The barked question made him jump and he looked up with wide eyes.

“It is, isn’t it?! What have I told you about wearing my shirts?!”

That was a trick question. It was fundamentally rhetorical, and his accuser might get angrier if he presumed to answer like he was stupid. But he might get angrier if he _didn’t_ answer him—he _had_ asked a direct question.

The puzzle left him speechless, and the man before him snarled.

“Stand up!” he ordered. “Right _now!”_

He tripped up and out of the chair he’d been in as quickly as he could. His wrists were grabbed.

“I’ll teach you to _listen_ when I tell you something! I’ve _told_ you I don’t want you wearing my shirts!”

He was dragged out of the room.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry!” he apologized frantically. “The laundry needed done, I didn’t know you’d be up so soon—“

“I don’t want excuses!”

He stopped trying.

He’d teach him—he just needed . . . _there._ That would do. The upper part of the doorframe to the hallway. He pulled his captive to it and yanked his arms above his head. He ordered,

“Grab it!”

He was obeyed swiftly. His voice dropped even lower into a threat.

 _“Don’t_ you let that go.”

His captive didn’t trust himself to speak, so he shook his head that, no, he wouldn’t.

He looked his captive over. He was stretched out—as tall as he was, the doorframe was almost out of reach. His captive was almost completely on tiptoe, struggling to not sway. He took in the thin cotton briefs that were darker at the junction of his legs. His captive’s pupils were blown, lips were parted, and his chest heaved from panting. And in his undershirt . . .

 _“Don’t,”_ he warned again. He didn’t need to specify don’t _what._

He needed some supplies. If he was going to learn, he’d have to make sure he didn’t _forget._

He left the man dangling, confident that he wouldn’t drop his arms. Returning to the kitchen, he rummaged through the junk drawer. If he paused longer than a beat, he could hear his captive’s panting little breaths.

Finding what he searched for, he came back around in front of him. He kept his prize behind his back as he addressed his captive again.

“You like wearing my tank tops?”

His captive gave an odd half-nod, half-shake of his head.

“Even after I repeatedly told you again and again . . .” he said, his voice dropping in a parody of sad disappointment. “You just don’t listen. Now I have to make sure you don’t wear this tank again. _No one_ wears this shirt again.”

With a deft movement he displayed the utility knife he’d found. His captive’s eyes widened as he flipped it easily through his fingers—he’d always had good knife skills. He caught his captive’s expression and noted he was leaning back as best he could, although he still obeyed his command to not release the wood overhead.

He smirked at his captive’s fear of him, and the greater fear of _not_ obeying him.

“Better stand real still, baby,” he said in a deceptively pleasant tone.

He clicked the knife open and slipped the flat of the razor blade down the front of his captive’s neck, maneuvering it under the stitched collar of the shirt.

He paused, which made his captive stand very still too. He even stopped breathing.

With a quick, unexpected flick of the blade, he twisted it and sliced the fabric. The captive gasped but forced himself to remain motionless.

He stopped, and the captive dared to look down.

The razor had slashed two, three inches into the tank top. The cut was ragged; the bottom hem hadn’t been held taut as it was cut.

The captive found his breath again and his chest separated the deeper vee-neck as he heaved.

The captor studied him, tapping the now closed utility knife against his mouth. His eyes were riveted on the muscled chest in front of him.

“That’s a start,” he muttered, and another glance up at his captive’s face told him another prick of fear had shot through him.

He lifted the edge of the shirt, folding it up on itself, to expose his briefs. With no word of warning this time, he used the razor to make inch long cuts on both sides of them, at each side seam at his hips. The captive didn’t have a chance to be still, and was grateful the blade didn’t slip.

Deliberately, his captor released the hem of the shirt and sunk to a crouch in front of him. He set the utility knife against the baseboard. As slowly as he crouched, he rose even more controlled, taking deep, measured breaths as he did. He could smell the musk of his captive as he moved up near his groin, and noted the crotch of the briefs in front of him was tenting.

The odor and sight aroused him and he smiled secretly as he continued standing. He gave his own hard-on a squeeze through the front of his pants.

Face to face with him again, the smile took on a harder edge.

The captive had managed to bring his breathing under better control and watched him warily.

Quick, like a snake striking, the captor took the back of his head in one hand. As he gasped, two fingers were into his mouth.

“Wet them,” he demanded.

He did as instructed, licking around and between the digits but not sucking them, as that would remove the spit he coated them with.

Without warning, his captor yanked the hand out of his mouth. A string of saliva hung from his lips to his fingers, but it broke as those fingers were drawn down the exposed area of his chest. A wide, shiny trail marked the area. His captor watched the hand move.

His shoulders began to ache from the position, and if his captor would just turn away for a second, he thought he would dare to drop them while his back was turned.

He didn’t, though, and once his captor’s fingers were dry they were brought back in front of his mouth again.

Knowing what was expected, he opened his mouth. But the fingers carelessly traced his lower lip, not dipping inside.

“I’d have you suck my fingers like it was my cock,” his captor told him, “and use them to prep your ass. But you don’t need much additional prep, do you?

“You’re still stretched from last night. Your ass is ready, isn’t it? You wish I’d just fuck you. Am I right?”

Another set of trick questions. Yes, but not yes. What did the man before him want to hear? He’d drive himself insane trying to puzzle out the proper answer.

In his captive’s silence, he dropped his hand and stepped up against him. His captive struggled to keep his balance on tiptoes. Once again fingers moved along the hem of the tank top, then one crossed his lower belly and the captive felt both hands slip under the right side of his briefs.

With a jerk, the seam was ripped apart. His captor did the same to the other side, using the tears he’d started with the razor as starting points. He yanked the ruined underwear from between his legs and tossed it on the floor.

Still standing close, he held a naked hip in one hand and fingered just along the head of the now free cock. His captive shuddered and moaned at the touch. When he drew that hand back, a different moan, a displeased moan, escaped.

His fingertips glistened from the bead of pre-cum they’d smeared.

He brought his hand up and rubbed the wet fingertips over his captive’s lips, then tightened his hold on the hipbone enough to hurt and claimed that mouth.

The kiss wasn’t gentle or playful—it was hard and painful as their teeth hit. His captive knew better than to cry out or pull away, however, and let him ravish him as he desired.

His captor’s erection pressed into his belly, and if he had had a little more balance he would dare to left a leg and wrap it around his hip.

His captor drew away from his mouth and left him gaping. His gaze raked down his body again, and in that scarily-quick way of his, he darted around to his back. Now his hard-on ground into the small of his back as he reached front and his hands roughly caressed his chest.

Again, he wasn’t gentle. He squeezed and found his nipples to pinch them through the fabric of the shirt. The man in front writhed against the harsh handling.

“You like that, don’t you. You never could get enough of me—“ He pinched again; his captive arched his back and cried out, “—abusing your chest.”

His captive couldn’t answer. All his mouth seemed to be able to do was moan.

As painful as his captor’s caresses had been, when he stopped a phantom ache flitted though him. One hand made its way down his side and gripped his hip again with enough force to leave finger marks. The other slipped up in to his hair and he pulled his head to the side, exposing his neck.

With a growl, he caught a bit of the sensitive skin on his shoulder between his teeth.

His captive shuddered, and he felt his arms trembling. He couldn’t reach the side of his throat as he wanted because his captive still obeyed his order to not release the doorframe, but the movements vibrated through him too. He didn’t want to let him go, but the abrasiveness of the fabric of his pants was both irritating and stimulating, and he worried he’d blow his load in them like a teenager if he didn’t get his belt undone.

Fuck that—he was no teenager! He let go of his hip and hair to step slightly away, however, and unhooked his belt.

Then, even as he dangled in front of him, the captive stood still a moment, working silently to catch his breath.

Before he’d calmed himself completely, and although he thought he was ready for whatever he may do next, he jumped and cried out as his captor abruptly brought his hands to his front again and tore the tank top in half, straight down the middle.

“I told you no one would wear this shirt again,” he hissed in his ear.

Now he gripped and squeezed his chest without even the thin protection of fabric. His captor’s large hands took advantage of even that slight difference and he manipulated his chest to just this side of truly painful. The captive twisted and gasped and danced on his toes away from him and back again when the hands didn’t relinquish their hold.

Suddenly, being behind his captive wasn’t enough. He let go of him so unexpectedly he almost lost his balance completely—only extreme effort and straining his aching arms prevented him from toppling over.

He slipped around to the front again, parting the shirt-that-was-now-a-rag back off his chest. The captor was captivated by the way the chest before him heaved, and his cock throbbed in the confines of his jeans as he lowered his head to pull a tempting nipple into his mouth.

The man cried out as teeth caught him. He knew, even though his captor hadn’t made much sound, that he was turned on. That he’d lose his control sooner rather than later . . .

His obvious pleasure made him take a risk.

With a crack of his wrist, the captive let go of the bar above his head. He reached to this captor and took the side of his head while he worried a nipple; in another second, his other hand joined the first.

His fingers threaded into his captor’s hair. Releasing the doorframe also brought his feet to a flat position, which made the man biting him sink slightly lower with too.

He was able to enjoy the feeling of directing the caresses for a moment until his captor grabbed both his wrists tightly and pulled his hands off.

His captor’s blazing eyes met his as he lifted his head.

“I don’t recall telling you to let that doorframe go!” he barked.

Hurriedly, to rectify his stupid mistake, the captive tried to shake off his grip to comply again. “I’m sorry—oh, I’m sorry—“

His captor held onto his wrists, ignoring the apologies and not letting him reach up again.

“Maybe we need to find something else for you to hold on to. Maybe—“

His eyes left his captive’s as he searched for a possibility. There was very little in the short hallway, however, and finally he just spun him around.

He forced his captive to lean forward and grasp the thick wooden side doorframe.

“You think you can keep hold of _that?”_ he demanded brusquely.

His captive knew better than to balk.

Bent over, sans underwear, the undershirt hanging off him, he felt vulnerable and exposed. He swallowed the excess spit in his mouth and tried to nod, keeping his head down.

If the captor thought he was close to losing it before . . . the sight of his captive bent in half in front of him, doing just what he commanded . . . even with the little transgression he could almost forgive him, since that preluded the position he was in now. He had to stop everything, completely, or the earlier fear of coming in his jeans would become a reality.

The ache of his cock under confinement wasn’t helping either. After a second, after making sure his captive wasn’t going to dare risk disobeying him again, he popped the button on his pants and unzipped his fly.

He was sure the sound was processed, because his captive became very still.

Pushing his jeans down—the noise of fabric brushing over skin made him very attentive too—he stepped out of his clothing and stepped closer. He made sure not to touch his captive, however.

Reaching around to his captive’s face, he shoved his fingers into his mouth again. The intrusion was unexpected, but he was accommodated and licked as before.

He removed his hand and took his hip with the other, bracing him. His wet fingers slipped into his captive’s ass, gliding easily between buttocks for the entrance there. As he brushed the muscled ring, his captive responded with a groan and by dipping his back so he was more open for him.

He didn’t take the wanton hint, however, and instead took his hand away. His captive groaned again, a more desperate noise, but didn’t turn his head to find out why he stopped.

The captor stifled his own groan. He fumbled for the tube of lube he’d found in the drawer with the utility knife and used it to re-wet his fingers, then liberally smeared it over his captive. He coated the lubrication on the head of his cock, and used the same hand to stroke himself as he lined up behind his captive. He grasped his waist with the other hand, earning the reward of him tensing in anticipation.

He looked down on the man in front of him and liked what he saw, but it wasn’t quite perfect yet. Without warning, he kicked his captive’s legs open more widely.

Off-balance, he almost went to his knees. He managed to catch himself and kept his legs apart as his captor obviously wanted.

The captor was pleased he hadn’t let go of the doorframe.

Then he couldn’t stand it any longer. Holding himself steady with the hand he’d used to stroke himself, he stepped between his captive’s spread thighs and plunged into him.

Their gasps matched. The position wasn’t anything the captive could maneuver in—he couldn’t shove back or tease or anything. He stood still, bent over, arms aching with the amount of effort he used to keep from being forced into the doorframe due to the blistering pace his captor set.

It was harsh, it was borderline painful, and he couldn’t help but cry out with each thrust. His captor’s hands were iron on his waist, and he thought he’d be bruised. One hand left his side for a moment, and in the next second his captor slipped it underneath him, finding and grasping his cock firmly.

His immediate response was to buck against him, crying out loudly, almost to the point of sobbing. His captor stroked him with the same rhythm of his thrusts. The combination was too much; he was pushed to over the edge of orgasm.

He sobbed at the white pleasure that flooded him.

His captor didn’t stop, and the cries and obvious climax of the man below him made it impossible to stave off his release any longer.

Roaring, he thrust into his captive deeply, grasping at him desperately and leaning over his back awkwardly as he came. The pulses from his cock seemed to travel up through his abdomen and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. His heart rate felt erratic, but he attributed that to too many things going on at once.

In a moment, once he’d swallowed and was sure his knees weren’t going to give out, he stood up and backed away a step.

His captive gave a soft whine in protest as he pulled himself out.

Carefully, his captive pushed himself off the doorframe and stood up too. His captor took his elbows and pulled him in close to steady him. His breath hitched again as he wiped his face.

“Are you okay? Was that okay?” you asked quickly. Your tone was much different. The hard ‘obey me’ voice was gone; now it was just alarmed and worried.

Rick hiccupped and nodded quickly, continuing to wipe his face. “Yes. Yes!”

You ducked your head to look him directly in the eye. “You’re sure? That wasn’t too much? I didn’t go too far—“

“No! I promise. It was . . . perfect. Perfect!”

You still didn’t look convinced. “I’m sorry! You know I’m not completely comfortable with . . . this. I worry . . . “

He stopped you with a hand on your mouth.

“That’s why I give you a script,” he admonished lightly. “You’re such a good actor, it works out just right.”

You fingered the tattered remains of the shirt. Rick read your mind.

“And don’t worry about these cheap undershirts! I can buy them in bulk! Okay?”

Slowly you nodded. “. . . Okay.”

Smiling and with the echoes of ecstasy fading through him, Rick slipped his arms around your neck. He murmured, “Thank you. Thank you so much. It was wonderful—just what I needed.”

The thanks were genuine, and you couldn’t help but return the smile and kiss him again, being more polite and respectful this time. Rick accepted the more typical kiss with just as much enthusiasm, and that made you believe him even more.

_fin._


End file.
